


A star of the West

by morbidlypicturesque



Series: Daughters of Cardolan ( Tolkien ) [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: An Unexpected Journey, Battle of Five Armies, Cardolan is not ruins, Desolation of Smaug, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Elf Culture & Customs, F/M, Quest of Erebor, Thorin Is an Idiot, Two stubborn royals with no sense of self preservation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:33:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24724591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morbidlypicturesque/pseuds/morbidlypicturesque
Summary: (...)  My house is very frail, very ancient, and very full of sorrow. No crown has graced the brow of the sons of Cardolan for two thousand years. So, yes, I know what it feels like, Thorin son of Thrain, to lack what is yours by right.It is too early for Cardolan, but it is a ripe time to reclaim your homeland. And by the Valar, I will do what is in my power to help you. (...)Celeriell of Cardolan has fought the forces of evil permanently looming over the ruins of her kingdom for over five decades. When the opportunity arises to help the company of Thorin Oakenshield to reclaim their homeland of Erebor, Celeriell cannot pass on the offer of an adventure.Or in which a lady of a fallen kingdom pledges her heart and sword to a king without a crown
Relationships: Amathor/Eirien, Thorin Oakenshield/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Daughters of Cardolan ( Tolkien ) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1787641
Kudos: 9





	1. 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡

* * *

**𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔟𝔶 𝔟𝔦𝔩𝔟𝔬 𝔟𝔞𝔤𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔯𝔢**

* * *

𝕸𝖞 𝖉𝖊𝖆𝖗 𝕱𝖗𝖔𝖉𝖔, you asked me once if I had told you everything there was to know about my adventures. And while I can honestly say I have told you the truth, I may not have told you all of it. I am old now Frodo. I'm not the same hobbit I once was. I think it is time for you to know what really happened.

To do this tale its due justice, I must dwell deeper into history of our land, though I am certain you will not mind. Time and time again you have proven to be quite fond of stories and legends of old.

Long before, as you might know — _though they teach you awfully little of history in schools_ — the land of Shire belonged to the Great Kingdom of Arnor.

This great kingdom was founded by Elendil of Númenór, who sought to settle his people - _The Dúnedain_ \- in the green plains and snowy mountains of the northern kingdom. His sons Isildur and Anárion, however, opted to settle in the South, and thus the Kingdom of Gondor was born.

These new inhabitants wore the name of Dúnedain of Arnor - tall and dark in appearance, lords of long life, great power, and wisdom; similar to their kin that people now call the Rangers of the North.

The land was prosperous and fruitful, extending from the icy bay of Forochel in the North to the River Greyflood in the South, and it seemed unlikely that anything could rattle the harmonious existence of the Dúnedain folk.

But human folly and the plots of a deathless evil had undone this dream. After the death of its tenth king, Arnor was no more; divided into the three kingdoms of _Arthedain, Cardolan and Rhudaur_ , the Dúnedain of the North spent their strength in foolish, petty wars and while corruption and ambition sapped their strength, enemies gathered on their frontiers.

The Witch-king arose in _Angmar_ , conducted by the Great Evil to gather evil men and creatures, and found the realm in the lands north of the Ettenmoors and between the Mountains of Angmar and the Grey Mountains; their sole purpose was destroying the fading Dúnedain of the divided kingdoms.

Rhudaur was the first kingdom to fall. Not even a soul remained in the wasteland left by the dark forces of the Witch-King, sowing terror into the bones of the defenders on the borders of Arthedian and Cardolan.

The iron hand of Evil fell upon the remaining Kingdoms in the year 1409. Angmar attacked Rivendell and Cardolan, besieging the Rivendell and destroying most of the Cardolan's settlements.

The Witch-king was stopped at Amon Sul, but the price to pay was high - King Arveleg I of Arthedian and King Ostoher of Cardolan left their lives on the battlefield, and Ostoher's sole heir, his daughter Nirnadel fled to Rivendell, becoming the first Queen in exile.

Not much is known of the period between the Battle of Amon Sul and decisive fray with the Kingdom of Angmar, but this is what is known to us; the descendants of Queen Nirandel were raised in the halls of Lord Elrond, a true friend of the bloodline who taught and shaped the exiled heirs.

For over five centuries the Kings and Queens of Cardolan remained in exile, growing, forging alliances and waiting for a moment to strike back at the force of Evil that usurped their homes.

And the moment finally came. In 1974 TA, The Witch-king amassed his greatest force yet, ready to deal the decisive blow to the Northern Kingdoms. King Arvedui of Arthedian and King Cirandil of Cardolan formed a coalition with the elves of Lindon and Rivendell, and in the final _Battle of Fornost_ united all the strength of light, not seen since the Last Alliance of Men and Elves.

After hundreds of years, the war was over and the Witch-king fled East. He would never return to that land, and neither would he fall by the hand of a man.

By the end of the year, the joint forces reclaimed Cardolan, also managing to clear _Tyrn Gorthad_ from the Barrow-wrights sent by the Witch king of Angmar. However, _Tyrn Gorthad_ , once the mighty capital of Cardolan, was never inhabited again and from then on became a funeral site of the rulers of Cardolan, with ominous spirits guarding the air.

But since Arthedain had been destroyed those Dúnedain that remained became a nomadic people, the Rangers of the North. Aranarth, the son of King Arvedui, who fell in battle, became their chieftain.

Cardolan was impoverished and left with little to no inhabitants — the process of restoration would take well over a thousand years, and the Kingdom would remain no more. Orothorion, son of the fallen King, laid down his crown and rose instead as the _High Lord of Cardolan_ , with a great burden of protecting the few thousands of his people that remained.

Two thousand years passed from that day and hence many thousands of men and women departed the land in search of a prosperous future in the green plains of Rohan and other southern kingdoms, in fear of the dangerous creatures that now inhabited the Misty Mountains and frequently raided the villages, burning everything in their way.

In the year 2934 the High Lord Arabor, a kind and spirited ruler fell to an Orkish ambush while travelling through Eregion. None of the retinue returned home, and the fate of the land now rested on the shoulders of his son, Lord _Amathor_ and his sister, Lady _Celeriell_.

And thus by the fate, and meddling of a certain grey wizard, that lady would become a fifteenth member of a company, the one that consisted of thirteen dwarves and a hobbit.

That, my dear Frodo, is where I come in, as you might have guessed. For by that very same chance, fate decided I would become part of this tale — a tale of war and glory, of kingdoms lost and found, and above all, love and friendship.

It began...well, it began as you might expect.

In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty wet hole full of worms and oozy smells. This was a hobbit hole. And that means good food, a warm hearth, and all the comforts of home...

* * *

𝖎𝖓 𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖋 𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊

* * *

katie mcgrath as **celeriell of cardolan**

_**(** a queen with no kingdom. **)**_

richard armitage as **thorin II durinson**

_**(** a king with no crown. **)**_

_the hobbit cast as_ **their respective characters**

_featuring original characters_

**high lord amathor of cardolan & eirien of ** **eriador**


	2. HOUSE OF CARDOLAN

**THE HOUSE OF CARDOLAN**

* * *

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘯, 𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘌𝘢̈𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘳, 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘩 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘎𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘌𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴; 𝘈𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘯, 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘙𝘩𝘶𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘳

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘌𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘭'𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘥𝘢𝘪𝘯

* * *

𝐓𝐀 𝟖𝟔𝟏.  
𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴

* * *

𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐫  
( 861. - 936. )

𝐓𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐫  
( 936. - 1001. )

𝐂𝐢𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧  
( 100. - 1079. )

𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐥  
( 1079. - 1153. )

𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐥  
( 1153. - 1235. )

𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐥  
( 1235. - 1287. )

𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫  
( 1287. - 1332. )

𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐜𝐚𝐫  
( 1332. - 1381. )

𝐎𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐡𝐞𝐫  
( 1381. - 1409. )  
𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘮𝘢𝘳; 𝘖𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦; 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘌𝘹𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘴

|  
𝐍𝐢𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐥  
( 1409. - 1412. )  
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘘𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘌𝘹𝘪𝘭𝘦; 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘌𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩-𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨

𝐄𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫  
( 1412. - 1503. )

𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐛𝐚𝐫  
( 1503. - 1575. )

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐐𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐥𝐞  
( 1575. - 1974. )

𝐎𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐧  
( 1975. - 2005. )

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘯 _&_ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘏𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘓𝘰𝘳𝘥

Aradhelion  
( 2005. - 2101. )

𝐑𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐝𝐢𝐫  
( 2101. - 2230. )

𝐅𝐚𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐬  
( 2230. - 2317. )

𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐥  
( 2317. - 2398. )

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫  
( 2398. - 2452. )

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐫  
( 2452. - 2491. )

𝐀𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐧  
( 2491. - 2598. )

𝐃𝐚𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐥  
( 2598. - 2703. )

𝐀𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫  
( 2703. - 2878. )  
𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘌𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘚𝘮𝘢𝘶𝘨

𝐀𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐫  
( 2878. - 2934. )

𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 2889. 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘈𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯

𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 2890. 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘊𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯

𝐀𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫  
( 2934. - 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 )  
𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘓𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘯 𝘖𝘳𝘤 𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘩

𝐄𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐫

𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘪𝘯 2941. 𝘵𝘰 𝘈𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘌𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯


	3. 𝐈. 𝔞 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢𝔩𝔶 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔠𝔲𝔢

* * *

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈. 𝖆𝖓 𝖚𝖓𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖘𝖊𝖊𝖓 𝖆𝖉𝖛𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖊

* * *

" 𝕴 𝖍𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖆 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖎𝖈𝖚𝖑𝖆𝖗 𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖊  
𝖎𝖓 𝖒𝖞 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙  
𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕𝖘  
𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘 𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌  
𝖆 𝖍𝖔𝖒𝖊. "  
  


━━━━━ _in which she has more than a willing heart to aid their quest_

* * *

## 𝐈. 𝔞 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢𝔩𝔶 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔠𝔲𝔢

* * *

  
 **THE SMOKE STILL ROSE** from the ruins of the cottage, enveloping the night in a veil of grey and white, flickering ashes resembling a dance of fireflies.

The scouts discovered the burnt wreckage in the early hours of the afternoon, somberly delivering the news to their commander — yet another house destroyed, another family slain in their beds by the foul detachments of orcs, throat-cutters, that had sown fear in the handful of remaining inhabitants of the Northern Parts.

Celeriell knelt on one knee, uncaring of the wet soil underneath sticking to her leathers, as she watched her men lower the remains of the unfortunate family into the freshly dug grave. For a silent minute, all of the soldiers joined her, heads bent, honouring their countrymen.

 _They are getting more courageous,_ Celeriell noted with dismay once she stood up again, making her way through the camp set up for the night.

Around the fire sat her loyal knights, the scouting part of Amon Carn's garrison she hand-picked for the increasingly dangerous job of securing the northern parts of the land from the packs of rogue orcs, coming down from their strongholds in the Misty Mountains.

In the fifteen years of her instalment their numbers doubled in size, mostly thanks to the strategic skills she collected through her fostering in Imladris and wandering the wilderness with the sons of Elrond.

A shrill blast of the sentry's horn cut through the mellow evening air, warning of an unknown traveller approaching from the woods.

"A rider from the north!"

Immediately there was commotion, clanging of metal as swords were drawn from their scabbards, waiting for the inevitable approach of a friend or a foe.

It was not a foul fiend that emerged from the trees, nor a servant of evil. In his grey robes and pointed hat, it was hard not to recognise the wandering wizard upon his white steed, neighing and whining as it was met with flaming torches and glinting blades.

"Put down your arms," she assured the men, putting her own blade away, so as not to scare the steed any further.

" _Mithrandir_!"

The sight of her family's old friend warmed her heart; she had missed the fascinating tales he told her as a child, and the encouragements that defined her way of living. She never had the opportunity to know her grandfather, on both sides of her family, but she wondered if they would treat her like the grey _Istari_ did.

" _Mellon_ , what brings you to this accursed land?" Celeriell gave a short laugh once the old wizard dismounted, quick to embrace the woman.

"An adventure, my dear," the old wizard winked mysteriously.

"That is exactly what I feared," Celeriell admitted with a smile. "I've had my eye on your retinue ever since you crossed into Bree."

She led Gandalf away from the towering tents stretched over the field, so as not to be overheard by any unwanted ears. While Celeriell trusted her men with her life, she was well aware of their tendency to share whispers, and Gandalf oftentimes carried secrets and tales of danger and foreboding. 

"Ah, I suspect it's hard to miss fifteen people on horseback." Gandalf agreed, well aware of the rambunctiousness of the company he kept.

"Especially if they are _dwarves,_ " her raised eyebrow demanded an explanation. Though it was certainly not the queerest preamble to one of his many adventures, she found it odd that they passed through her land as dwarves mostly kept to themselves far in the mounts of Ered Luin.

"Where did they set up camp? It would've been wise of you to find someone who knows the terrain, there are queer things lurking in the night," she cautioned him.

The travellers were always warned not to stray from the Great Eastern Road once they depart Bree, lest they want to get lost in the ominous Barrow-Downs or become prey for all the things lurking in the night.

"Ah, well, you see my dear, I do hope I found the person willing to help us," he said, leaning leisurely on his staff, silently hoping the woman would catch the meaning behind his words. There was an inkling in his mind that told him the quest would greatly benefit from yet another addition.

"Who did you- oh. _Mithrandir_!" Celeriell exclaimed, wide eyes turning to him. Of course, as it was common with the said wizard, there was no such thing as an accidental encounter.

"You wouldn't mind, Celeriell?" He gave her his best smile, knowing she was already intrigued by the nature of his adventure. "We are heading for Rivendell and then hopefully over the Mountains."

"Thankfully, I'm also heading there. Amathor sent a raven days ago, the healers are sure I will be an aunt by the end of the week," she said, smiling at the prospect.

Though married for only five years, her brother and good-sister were expecting their first child, and Celeriell was already sure she would love her niece or nephew more than the life itself. As was custom, the women of their family gave birth in the Halls of Lord Elrond, under care of the best elven healers they could offer - it was a tradition born from the long standing friendship and camaraderie of their families.

"Then congratulations are in order. I have no doubt Amathor and Eirien will be wonderful parents, just as your own were," Gandalf said as they moved towards the camp again.

"Caranthon! I'm leaving you in charge of the patrols."

Her advisor's head shot up from the stew he was sharing with his comrades, surprised to hear his name being called. The young man was quick to join them just as Celeriell ordered for her horse to be saddled and brought to her.

"But, my lady, the hour is fell and it would not be wise to travel through the forest," the grey of his eyes flashed with concern for his commander. She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"I have a wizard at my side and a sword on my hip, my friend. Proceed with our usual route tomorrow and then return to Amon Carn."

The soldier could only nod in the face of her determination and accepted the helmet from her hands, the one carved with red elvish inscriptions that was passed down from one commander to the other. Never in a million years had he expected to earn the honour of wearing it, even for a little while.

"If I may, my friend, why are you travelling in a company of dwarves?" Celeriell questioned once they both got on their horses, making their way northwards to where the Company's camp was set up.

"That is a fine story, and a one you might take a great liking to... What do you know about the Fall of Erebor?"  
  
  
  


* * *

Celeriell oft questioned Mithrandir's ideas, and now, some hours after he relaid his plans to her she still couldn't wrap her head around it - _thirteen dwarves and a hobbit against a fire-breathing dragon?_ If it succeeded, she was sure it would make for a fine heroic song.

However, once the duo reached the place the said company supposedly set up a camp, they were greeted by empty bedrolls and a dwindling fire. And most unexpectedly, cries of distress.

"Trolls? By Manwë's beard," Celeriell couldn't help but gasp in shock at the sight that greeted them among the trees. Thankfully, from their hidden outlook they could observe the scene without being seen by the three trolls around the fire, discussing - quite loudly - of the best way to cook a dwarf.

"The sun is almost out, but we might be too late if we wait," they got off their horses as silently as possible, though Celeriell's armour still clanked once she hit the soft wooden floor. While they were tying their trusted companions to a tree, Celeriell noticed the way colours changed on the horizon, bringing in the hope of a clear, new day.

"Could we try to move that boulder?" She asked quietly, pointing to the great stone behind the trio of trolls.

"Come along and help me," Gandalf urged her, making haste as the shouts from the dwarves increased.  
  


On the count of three, Celeriell bared the gleaming blade from her scabbard, focusing fully on the way the rock was supposed to crack and break once Gandalf joined her with his staff.

"The dawn will take you all!"

With a powerful strike of his staff against the rock, Gandalf managed to split it in half, allowing the sunlight behind it to pour into the clearing. When the sunlight touched the trolls' skin, they begin turning into stone amidst loud screams and howls of pain. Within seconds, where there were three living trolls now stood three stone statues in the clearing. Cries of joy and relief came from the dwarves, the loudest ones coming from the ones on the spit.

Hidden from the view, Celeriell returned her sword to his rightful place - it did not break on the slightest on impact with the boulder, as one might expect, for it was not a blade made by common smiths.

Gandalf walked to one of the troll statues and thumping it with his staff, with a pleased smile on his face.

She could recognise the posture of the tall dwarf; be it in the straightness of his spine or tension of his shoulders or perhaps the authority seeping out of his every movement, it revealed him to be none other than the dwarfish leader

Truthfully, it mirrored the way she herself stood against the world, unyielding and unbending.

The dark haired dwarf turned to Gandalf, a look of relief and gratitude written over his face. "Where did you go to, if I may ask?"

The wizard simply hummed. "To look ahead."

"What brought you back?"

"Looking behind," Gandalf said meaningfully, giving something over his shoulder a pointed look. Following the wizard's gaze, Thorin noticed a cloaked figure in the place of the boulder which Gandalf broke moments ago.

"Well, ah, I was warned by a friend."

"Who goes there?" He barked, other dwarves following their leader's example and standing up alert.

Gandalf scowled slightly at the mistrustful glare Thorin kept on the figure. "Lower your weapons Thorin, no enemy of yours stands on my side."

"Have you told someone else of our quest?"

"He is due to tell the person whose land you stand on, Master Dwarf," Celeriell pushed her cloak back, revealing her dark tresses and amused smirk, looking down on the dwarf lord.

Though she was certainly taller than him, the difference was not as drastic as she expected - the heir of Durin seemed to be taller than the average dwarves of his company.

An entirely different commotion ran through the assembled dwarves as they looked at each other in bewilderment. "It's a woman!"

"A lass!" 

"Aye, she's tall, but she's not an elf," Celeriell threw a fleeting glance at the bald dwarf that remarked upon her appearance to another one, sporting a long white beard that curled at the bottom. "She hasn't got those pointy ears."

Gandalf coughed pointedly, in an attempt to shut the wondering dwarves up. "May I present you, Celeriell, the lady of Cardolan. She's been kind enough to extend a helping hand while we pass through these lands."

"We need no help, lest not one of a woman," the Dwarf King rebutted harshly, his untrusting eyes sweeping over the woman's figure. As the wind played with her cloak, it revealed a fitted chainmail underneath instead of a dress one would associate with a highborn lady, and riding leathers that allowed her to sit on her horse properly.

A twinge of anger blossomed and grew in her chest; his opinion was one she encountered for far too long, among males of all kind and race. "You'd be eaten now, were it not for a woman," she shot back instantly.

"They came down from the Ettenmoors." Gandalf butted in, in an attempt to diffuse tension between the two nobles.

"Since when the mountain trolls venture this far south?" Thorin questioned.

"Oh, not for an age. Not since a darker power ruled these lands." Gandalf shared a meaningful look with his companion, the woman nodding seriously.

"It is not the queerest thing to happen in the last few decades, Mithrandir," she said, observing the statues immortalised in the clearing.

"They could not have moved in daylight."

"There must be a cave nearby," the stern dwarf turned to his companions, urging them to collect their belongings.

Celeriell mused for a moment, trying to recall her knowledge of these parts before she exclaimed. "There is, indeed; the Hollowturn's cave. Follow me."

" _Follow her_ ," the Grey wizard urged the hesitant dwarves, himself already ten paces ahead.

"Valar save me the mistrust of dwarves," Celeriell grumbled under her breath, not deaf to the array of remarks coming from the fellowship behind her.

They were quick to reach an opening in the ground, dark and gaping hole that provided the same gut churning smells as the trolls had.

"Oh, what's that stench?!" several dwarves complained, turning green as they neared the entrance to the cave. Celeriell bunched up a piece of her green cloak, bringing it up to cover her nose in an attempt to block the unbearable odour.

"It's a troll hoard," Gandalf said simply. "Be careful what you touch."

"How could we have possibly missed this?" Celeriell berated herself, guilt creeping up at her for not discovering the troll infestation before. She could not allow herself to think of the lives the could've saved, if only they looked more closely.

Though the stench certainly made the discovery less than enjoyable, the riches found were undeniably extensive; overflowing chests of gold and jewels, discarded swords and plates of armour, trinkets of all sorts covered by webs and dust.

Several dwarves were digging holes and putting the chests of gold in them, and then covered them with soil and leaves that fell down into the cave.

"Seems a shame just to leave it lying around. Anyone could take it," one of them replied cheekily seeing her confused expression.

Instead of gold and jewels, however, her eyes were drawn to a plain looking box out of which Thorin pulled out a curved sword, one of the finest she had ever seen.

"These swords were not made by any troll," he voiced his observation. It glinted in the faint light coming from the entrance, silver curves and markings proving the craftsman's skill.

"Nor were they made by any smith among men," Celeriell agreed, reaching for the other one in the box. This one was much skinnier than the other, with a silver hilt and black detailing.

"These were forged in Gondolin, by the High Elves, of the First Age," she looked over to the dwarf lord to see his face twist in disgust at the mention of Elves. He was about to lower it down before Celeriell's hand stopped him.

"You could not wish for a finer blade."

Begrudgingly, he had to agree with her words. None were so skilled in making weapons than the High Elves of Noldor, and every piece they made was etched with spells and spirit of its own.

She took the two remaining swords, though one resembled a curved dagger at most and headed out of the cursed cave, delighted once fresh air and sunlight hit her features again.

The silver sword and dagger she found she presented to Gandalf who seemed to be lacking one.

"A fine treasure," he complimented, curiously looking over the inscriptions written over the scabbard. "You don't want to keep it?"

Celeriell shook her head. "There is no weapon I would wield rather than my sword."

As the company prepared to continue their journey, Celeriell decided to approach the one member whom she found particularly out of place.

"A Hobbit in the company of dwarves, now that is a sight I never dreamed of," she said, walking over to where he stood, brooding, while the dwarves packed up their belongings.

"You seem uncomfortable, Master Hobbit," The young hobbit's head shot up with a semblance of smile, though it resembled more of a grimace.

"No, I mean yes-agh. I feel out of place. I'm no burglar, or adventurer for that matter. I'm not used to travelling and sleeping in the open, _on the ground,"_ he stressed, running a hand through his unruly curls.

 _"_ Well _,_ Master Hobbit-" she started only to be cut off with his politeness.

"Bilbo Baggins, my lady."

"Then please call me Celeriell," she grinned back. "No journey we undertake is futile, and every step is a lesson learnt. You are yet to learn much from this quest, Bilbo."

The hobbit accepted her advice with a thoughtful nod, noticing a finely embroidered sword belt resting around the lady's middle.

"You're a fighter?" Bilbo asked, half in curiosity and half in awe.

Most women he encountered, and those were hobbit women, expressed no wish to wield any weapon, lest of all fight. But now this enigmatic woman stood before him, dressed like the warriors from the tales of Men, and still more beautiful than any female he had ever seen.

"I don't carry a sword for decorative purpose," she touched the hilt with a particular fondness and leaving her hand to rest there. It brought her comfort to trace the inlaid gems and carvings that weathered through centuries before the ancestral blade passed onto her.

Out of the corner of his eye Thorin watched the exchange between their burglar and the unknown woman, laughing and conversing as if they were old friends.

"Was it necessary to bring this woman with us, Gandalf? You already burden us with this hobbit. She will only slow us down."

"I never took you for such a prideful creature, Thorin Oakenshield," Gandalf's eyes shone with fury that took him aback. He loomed over him, dark and grey, in warning. "You will find no better guide to pass through these lands alive. I will hear nothing else from you. "

"How much does she know?" Thorin asked, careful not to enrage the wizard any further.

Just as he was about to answer, Gandalf was cut off by yells, the sound of crunching branches and then a familiar figure bolting into the clearing.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for clicking on this story, I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. I'd love to hear your thoughts so far!


	4. 𝐈𝐈. 𝔣𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔰

* * *

## 𝐈𝐈. 𝔣𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔰

* * *

  
  
  
 **IN AN INSTANT, CELERIELL'S HAND** was on the hilt of her sword, but even before she had the opportunity to release it from its scabbard, through the thick foliage burst a shabby chariot drawn by rabbits. Upon it, to her great amusement, stood Radagast the Brown, a well-known, ancient dweller of forests and protector of all the living in them.

This time, however, he was trembling in panic, very unlike his usual cheery demeanour. "Thieves! Fire! Murder!" he shouted, disembarking his chariot in a flurry of motion and thick brown robes.

"Radagast! Radagast the Brown!" cried Gandalf, sheeting his sword in relief. "What on earth are you doing here?"

The Company clutched their weapons, though they glanced at each other not sure what to make of this apparent friend or foe. "Put your weapons away," Gandalf told them, with a wave of his hand. "He is no enemy of yours."

"I was looking for _you_ , Gandalf," Radagast replied, joining him in quick strides. "Something's wrong. Something's terribly wrong."

"Yes?" Gandalf asked, now wary of his friend's more unusual behaviour.

Bilbo leaned closer to Celeriell. "Who's that?" he asked, looking up and down the shabby appearance of the man.

He was garbed in mismatched robes of several shades of brown, with a long staff and a hat perched atop his head. Something grey appeared to be stuck to his hair, and Bilbo had the faintest, disgusted inkling of what that might be.

"Radagast, one of the seven _Istari_ — that would be Quenya for wizards — wandering the lands. You could say they protect the order of Valar and all the living creatures," she explained. "Excuse me for a moment." She left his side, crossing over to where the two wizards stood aside, mumbling incoherently.

Radagast opened his mouth to speak, but shut it. He opened it again, and closed it again, as if he had lost his intended trail of thought.

"Just give me a minute. Um...Oh! I had a thought and now I've lost it. It was...it was was right there, on the tip of my tongue! Oh!" He curled his tongue, to the utter confusion of the company, and furrowed his brow in surprise. "It's not a thought at all!" the wizard mumbled, stuck his tongue out, a stick insect appeared on it. Gandalf pulled it straight out of Radagast's mouth. "It's a silly old... stick insect."

"I apologise, profusely, my lady," Radagast dipped his head, slightly embarrassed. "It is good to see you, Celeriell."

A warm smile spread on her lips. Radagast was by far one of the most pleasant, and interesting beings she had the opportunity to encounter, and over the years they exchanged many educational talks over reforestation of the border parts of Cardolan.

"Please continue, my friend," she prompted him on with the distressed tale. "You seem deeply troubled."

Radagast glanced between the two. "The Greenwood is sick, Gandalf, Celeriell. A darkness has fallen over it, nothing grows anymore. At least nothing good. The air is foul decay, but worse are the webs."

"Webs, you say?" a frown appeared on her face. "I have noticed them too, on this side of the Mountains."

Radagast nodded shakily. "Spiders, Gandalf. Giant ones. Some kind of spawn of Ungoliant, or I am not a Wizard. I followed their trail. They came from Dol Guldur."

"Dol Guldur?" murmured Gandalf. "But the old fortress is abandoned."

The brown wizard shook his head gravely. "No, Gandalf, it is not. A dark power dwells there, such as I have never felt before. It is the shadow of an ancient horror," his voice dropped significantly, mismatched eyes flitting anxiously between the two.

"One that can summon the spirits of the dead."

Icy dread gripped the brunette's insides _. " No,"_ she whispered, hand reaching up to cover her mouth. It was the name that caused the demise of her people, that haunted every inch of the fallen kingdom.

The air around them suddenly stilled and grew cold, the leaves of the trees shaking by the hand of something invisible, ominous. It whispered and called in the language unknown to her, one of great destruction and evil that walked the land long before her forefathers. "I saw him, Gandalf. From out of the darkness, a Necromancer has come." 

Radagast shivered, suddenly returning from the trance he fell into. "I'm sorry."

Giving his friend a sympathetic smile, Gandalf wiped the tip of his pipe with his sleeve, passing it to Radagast. "Try a bit of Old Toby," he said. "It'll help settle your nerves."

Radagast breathed in the smoke.

"And out."

With eyes crossed and a peaceful look on his face, Radagast blew the smoke out of his nose and ears, like a chimney during wintertime.

"Good," Gandalf pocketed his pipe. "Now, a Necromancer. Are you sure?"

Radagast reached into his robes to pull out a cloth-wrapped package, presenting it to the two. Gandalf took it into his hands, untying the ropes to get a better look at its contents. Curious, Celeriell peered to get a closer look. A blade, darker than anything she had ever seen, and fouler, too. Gandalf closed it with a great hurry. "That is not from the world of the living."

The young lady let her hand run over the side of her face, processing the dreary information. "It would make sense, though I reluctantly admit it. Five families," a pained look crossed her face, "not even a single soul left alive. The beasts strike in the little hours of the night and even some of my best scouts don't return to Amon Carn."

Their conversation was abruptly cut short once a devious howl sounded far too close to their comfort.

"Was that a wolf?" came Bilbo's question. "Are there—are there wolves out there?"

The sound was far too familiar to Celeriell. "Wolves?" she drew her ancestral blade from its scabbard. "No, that is not a wolf."

Suddenly, a warg—a vicious creature with gleaming fangs and slitted eyes—leapt into the clearing and knocked down one of the dwarves. Thorin was first to react, striking out with his new blade, a flash of silver and blue, ending the warg before it could lunge upon any victim.

Another one came bursting through the tree line and Celeriell spun around, ducking for a perfect moment to send her sword through its snarling jaw. Albeit mortally wounded, the beast continued to trash until several arrows lodged in him — courtesy of the Company's archer — and the bald dwarf brought his axe down upon it to finish it off.

"Warg scouts!" Thorin cursed, yanking his blade free of the carcass. "Which means an orc pack is not far behind!"

"Orc pack?!" Bilbo squeaked out, shuffling closer to Celeriell's side.

"Who did you tell about your quest, beyond your kin?" Gandalf bellowed the question, looming over Thorin.

"No one," answered the dwarf prince firmly.

Gandalf persisted. "Who did you tell?"

"No one, I swear," his glare turned on the only woman of the company. "It is you who told this woman of it! What in Durin's name is going on?"

The young warrior saw red before her. "You dare accuse me of siding with the enemy, Oakenshield?" white burning rage simmered inside of her, the offence too great to forgive. _How dare he, the insolent dwarf, to even consider me siding with the evil incarnate._ She met Thorin's cold glare with a sharp scoff and a sneer.

"By the Valar, how _blinded_ you are by your prejud-"

They had stepped closer to each other, breath away and hands itching to take a hold of their weapon. " _Perhaps_ I wouldn't have if I knew _who_ you were before-"

"You are being hunted! Now stop your childish fighting," Gandalf barked, breaking the heated exchange between the two. "Bloodline of the kings, bah!"

One of the company members stepped in to bring the matter back to the reality. "We have to get out of here."

"We can't!" a pair of dwarves burst from the trees, "We have no ponies; they bolted. Only this horse remained."

Behind them, Celeriell's mare trotted up to her mistress, nuzzling her head into her hand. She was her trusted companion, and if anything happened to her, she would never forgive herself.

" _Mellon nîn,_ you know the way to the halls of Imladris. Go! I will follow right behind you," she whispered soothingly to her horse, giving her a light shove in the right direction. Perhaps, if Nimiel arrived at Rivendell on time, a scouting party could be dispatched in their aid.

"I'll draw them off."

It was Radagast who said it, and the company collectively turned to look at the — in the broadest possible manner of speaking — odd wizard.

"These are Gundabad Wargs!" Gandalf looked back at his friend. "They will outrun you!"

Radagast smirked at the challenge. "These are Rhosgobel Rabbits; I'd like to see them try."  
  
  
  


༻ ✶ ༺  
  
  


**RADAGAST SHOT OUT OF THE FOREST,** his Rhosgobel rabbits bolting through the clearing, followed by the deathly howls of wargs hot on his heels. If they had the time, or had not been in utterly life threatening situation, if would've been breathtaking to sit back and watch the way Radagast's chariot twisted and turned, making difficult tricks over the plains in order to deceive the bloodthirsty beasts that chased him.

Celeriell raised her hand slowly, motioning for the Company crouching in the bushes behind her to get ready. When Radagast moved far enough, she gave the order.

"Let's go, move!" Celeriell led the Company across the rocky plain, flanked by the grey wizard who turned them ever so slightly in the direction he intended. There was only one place they could go for safety, and the dwarven company would surely protest vehemently if he revealed the plan just yet.

They darted from one rock to another, finding shelter underneath the looming structures, hearts thumping in their throats as they ran from the danger that surrounded them.

Thorin pulled one of the younger looking dwarves by the collar of his cloak, lest he ran out of the protective cover of the rock. "Ori, no! Come back!" he hissed just as the pack passed by them.

"Come on! Quick!" Gandalf yelled, leading them further into the valley, a determined look upon his face.

"Where are you leading us?" Thorin demanded, but Gandalf remained silent.

Their company of sixteen took cover behind an outcropping of rock, breaths ragged and laboured. Not even a moment later an ominous clicking of claws against rock reached their ears, the menacing growl of the warg pacing just above the Company's hiding place. It snuffled and snarled, scenting the air, and it was only a matter of moment before they were discovered.

Thorin gestured upwards to the young dwarf that had a bow. He nodded in understanding, stepped out quickly and made a quick work of drawing the string and imbedding his arrow in the warg's skull. Both the warg and its orc tumbled down among them.

Celeriell moved efficiently, drawing her copper-coloured blade and slashing the vile orc, her effort joined by the bald dwarf with his axe. But the beasts did not die quietly, the sound they made in their final moments carrying over the plain.

There was a moment of quiet before the storm, before the pack sniffed out their hideout. "Move. Run!" The words left Celeriell's mouth in an instant, pushing her companions along.

"This way! Quickly!" Gandalf barked, leading them in a new direction.

Celeriell dared herself to look behind; though she was used to encountering orcs wherever she went, they were never a pleasant sight to see, with their sickly yellow eyes and black-stained teeth pulled back in vicious grins.

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Bilbo struggling to keep up with the laborous pace of their escape. She slowed down for a moment only to wrap her hand around his wrist and tug him along.

"There's more coming!" The young archer warned, striking left and right with his arrows.

"Kili! Shoot them!" Thorin ordered as it became quite obvious they had nowhere else to run.

"We're surrounded!" called the golden-haired dwarf, a foreign curse leaving his mouth moments later. "Where is Gandalf?"

"He's abandoned us!" grumbled the bald dwarf, gathering closer to the group. Celeriell wanted to shout, to roll her eyes, knowing full well that Gandalf never ran from danger — if anything, he ran straight into its arms. 

"Hold your ground!" Thorin called out, pulling out his new, curved sword. All they could do now was stand their ground and fight.

"This way, you fools!" came a thunderous remark. Gandalf appeared beside a large rock, waving for them to follow before disappearing bellow it.

Thorin moved to the entrance, motioning for them to get inside. "Come on, move! Quickly, all of you! Go, go, go!" he urged on as one by one the dwarves and the hobbit slid into the large crack and disappeared. All save Kili, who was still shooting at the orcs, and Celeriell, who was protecting their flank, hands firmly around the handle of her sword.

"Kili, run! Get in, Celeriell!" It was the first time Thorin had called her anything other than _woman_.

Ignoring his order, Kili nocked an arrow which flew swiftly, embedding itself in the throat of an orc several feet away from their spot. But the warg, now free of its rider, leapt towards them.

Realising the dwarf would be first to feel the impact of the beast, Celeriell moved in front of him, shoving him to the side and raising her blade in protective stance. He stumbled over his legs, falling on the ground next to the entrance to the hole. 

"Get up!" She growled out as she prepared for the impact coming her way. "Get up, dwarf, or I'll push you down."

The young dwarf rolled into the crack, narrowly dodging being pushed down unceremoniously.

"Celeriell, get inside!" the voice of Thorin Oakenshield called from behind her.

Celeriell gave him a fleeting look. "Don't wait up," she gave the order in a tone that gave no chance at refusal. "I will be down shortly, but not until I know every last one of you is safe first." A moment she took to turn around and say those words was enough for the riderless warg to approach her from behind.

It was a collision of thick fur and teeth, pushing her down on the ground. The air escaped her lungs as it slammed her down, starts dancing across her vision. Its foul breath was on her face, jaws wide open and ready to snap. She reached for her sword, knocked out of her hand on impact, and slammed it against the beast's jowls.

Nothing could, however, prepare her for the searing pain in her chest when the warg brought his paw viciously against her ribcage. She couldn't help the scream that left her mouth, the familiar taste of blood sharp on her tongue. In one last, desperate attempt, she clutched her sword with both her hands, holding it above her head and struck the warg's temple. It whined and groaned, blood seeping out of its mouth.

It went to raise its large paw one last time, and Celeriell though she ought to close her eyes now, for she surely couldn't survive another blow. That is, until an arrow struck right between its eyes, making the foul beast slump against her with its full weight. It was done.

Using the last of her strength she pushed the creature off herself, finally seeing the elvish hunting retinue on their horses filling her peripheral vision. The ground trembled beneath the rumble of the hooves, the call of their hunting trumpet.

With an exhausted sigh she slumped back onto the grass, lacking the strength to pull herself up on her own. Moments later, an armoured figure blocked the glaring sun that kissed her sweat-stained skin, offering their hand to the young woman stretched out on the ground.

Celeriell accepted the gloved hand readily. "Thank you, my lord," she gasped slightly, wincing as she bowed respectfully to her saviour. Lord Elrond removed his helm, letting his dark hair fall across his shoulders.

"Bring her a horse," he ordered and let his eyes wander of the sorry state of his young ward. "I did not expect to see you chased by Warg scouts, my dear. Care to tell me why you almost died while saving a dwarf?" He cocked a questioning eyebrow in her direction.

The brunette replied with a knowing smile as she hauled herself on the spare horse given to her. " _Mithrandir_ ," the name was enough for Lord Elrond to let out a deep chuckle and an understanding nod of his head.

"You needn't say anything more," Lord Elrond turned to his hunting retinue. "Let us go back to Imladris, there's a company expecting our arrival."

It did not escape the elven lord that she held a firm hand on her bleeding side. "You must get your wounds seen to," he warned

The leather brigandine she wore was pierced by one of the warg's claws, making a sizeable hole near her ribs. Even the light mail underneath had its limit, not sustainable enough to go against the raw strength of such rabid beasts.

"Not before I see Eleniel," the woman shook her head stubbornly. "I promised I'd be there as soon as my nephew is born."

And it was a promise she intended to keep, she decided, digging her heels into the horse's side as they made their way to the Halls of Lord Elrond.   
  


༻ ✶ ༺  
  
  


 **AS THORIN AND KILI** slid into the crack, The Company could hear sounds of struggle coming from above. 

"B—but Lady Celeriell is still out there!" Bilbo turned deathly pale as The Company froze at a scream of pain followed by sounds of slashing through flesh. None of them moved a muscle, only their breaths echoing in the tunnel.

A distinct sound of a hunting trumpet cut the stale air, soon joined by the unmistakeable clashes of steel against steel.

Suddenly, an arrow whizzed in, embedding itself in the patch of moss between them, the dwarves jumping back in surprise. Thorin was first to recognise it as he yanked it from the ground, snapping it in half as soon as he had his hands on it.

"Elves," he sneered, spitting bitterly on the ground.

"Good, very good," Gandalf hummed, more to himself than anyone else. But Bilbo couldn't wrap his head around it.

He spluttered incoherently, wondering how could they leave behind the woman who singlehandedly saved them. "Gandalf! We can't leave her!"

His chuckle unnerved him even more. "Don't you fret, Master Baggins, our lady is made of much stronger stuff than she appears. A warg will not end the line of Elendil, I can assure you."

Not in the slightest reassured, Bilbo picked himself off the ground, adjusting his traveling pack on his shoulders. The rest of The Company did not appear particularly assured either.

"I cannot see where the pathway leads. Do we follow it or no?" Dwalin yelled, peering down the long dark hallway he had found at the opposite end of the cave. 

"Follow it, of course!" Bofur yelled back, as if there were any doubt in the matter.

With a spirit dampened by the unknown fate of their newest companion, thirteen dwarves, a hobbit and a wizard trudged through the tunnel and down the winding path for what seemed like an eternity to their tired legs.

They rounded a sharp bend only to come to face the one of the most splendid sights they've ever seen. In the valley that stretched far and wide, protected by golden mountains in the distance, greens and blues poured over the scenery, bursting with touches of flowers and trees the kind Bilbo had never seen before. Silver-white buildings resembling overgrown vines twisted and turned, knitting up tall structures, bridges over the crystal waterfalls and vivid springs.

"The Valley of Imladris." Gandalf's voice echoed as he stood behind Bilbo, careful not to tip over the ledge on which they stood. "In the Common Tongue, it's known by another name."

"Rivendell." Bilbo breathed out in awe, overwhelmed with the scene that laid out before them.

The dwarves, however, were not as pleased. "This was your plan all along," Thorin said, his voice low and dangerous. He had stepped forward to look out over the ledge they stood on, turning to glower at Gandalf. "To seek refuge with our enemy?"

"You have no enemies here, Thorin Oakenshield," Gandalf sighed exasperatedly, "the only ill will to be found in this valley is that which you bring yourself!"

"You think the Elves will give our quest their blessing?" Thorin contended, less furious this time, "They will try to stop us." He almost sounded pained. They could not allow to be set back in the slightest.

"Of course they will," Gandalf replied as though her were talking to a small child, "But, we have questions that need to be answered. If we are to be successful, then this will need to be handled respectfully, and with no small degree of charm. Which is why you, Master Dwarf, will leave the talking to me."

Without another word, Gandalf turned and began down and long and steep path into the valley. Their hobbit could hardly contain the sheer amazement with every detail they came across, the intricate bridge they had to cross to get to the entrance, the ripe, shining fruit that pulled the branches down with its weight.

The dwarves kept their wide-eyed wonder mainly in check, though Fili and Kili kept gasping at the beautifully carved wood which earned them a stern look from their uncle. As they neared the white archway, The Company could see the lithe forms, moving like water among the pillars, curious eyes following their steps.

A figure appeared on the top of the stairs — an elf, immaculate in appearance, strikingly tall and effortlessly gliding down to meet them. A murmur of discontent rang through the dwarves, unused to being so close to _an elf._

" _Mithrandir,"_ he spoke, letting his eyes wander over the unexpected company. The high, lilting tone of his voice filled the courtyard.

"Ah, Lindir!" greeted Gandalf jovially.

The elf smiled, placing a hand over his heart and dipping his head in respectful greeting. _'Lastannem i athrannedh i Vruinen,'_ he replied serenely.

"Indeed. I have come to seek counsel from Lord Elrond over most urgent matters," Gandalf told Lindir, with a slight incline of his head. "Will you please let him know that we are here?"

"My lord Elrond is not here," Lindir said, regretfully.

"Not here?" Gandalf looked stunned. "Where is he?"

Instead of a reply, Lindir's eyes flickered over to the path The Company came from. A horn sounded out in the air, the one they had the opportunity to hear half an hour ago, the very one that came to their rescue. The sound of hooves thundered towards them, revealing a dozen of elven warriors upon their mounts, armed from head to toe.

" _Ifridî bekâr!_ " Thorin yelled as the company began to group together. "Close ranks!"

The elves slowed as they neared, riding in a tight circle around the dwarves. They, too, had their weapons at the ready, answering in the same manner as their guests. They stopped, halting their horses, one of the elves riding forward.

Dismounting his silver-white steed, the elf lord's dark eyes moved over the assembled bunch in his courtyard before they landed on his old friend. "Gandalf," the deep, melodious voice of their host enveloped them.

The grey wizard bowed to him gracefully. "Lord Elrond. _Mellonnen! Mo evínedh?"_ Gandalf asked, sweeping his hat off from atop of his head. 

_"Farannem 'lamhoth i udul o charad. Dagannem rim na Iant Vedui."_ Elrond replied, an eyebrow quirked upward with a subtle hint of a smile upon his face.

"Strange for Orcs to come so close to our borders. Something, or someone, has drawn them near," he unfastened an orchish sword from his belt, passing it to Lindir who accepted it with a nauseated look on his face.

"Ah," Gandalf admitted, a tad sheepish, "that may have been us. Have you, by chance, encountered our good lady Celeriell?"

"The very one you left behind to fend for her life against a pack of wargs?" the elven lord shot the Company a look of disapproval. The ensemble behind him parted to allow a horse and its rider to come forward.

Celeriell sat atop a grey mount, one hand holding the reins tightly, while the other pressed against a spot underneath her ribs. Her lovely emerald cloak was nowhere in sight, and there were noticeable scratched on the leather that protected her torso.

"My lord Elrond, let us not dwell on that." She was paler than before, her placating words revealing the hold that exhaustion had over her body. "I am alive and well." Elrond did not look as if he agreed.

Thorin took that as an opportunity to step closer and reveal himself.

"Welcome Thorin, son of Thrain," greeted Lord Elrond slowly. He stepped forward to meet him, speaking in the strong manner of a ruler that had seen kingdoms rise and fall, bloodlines be born and extinguished, a ruler of the Ages that had passed and those that were yet to come.

Thorin raised an eyebrow in surprise. "I do not believe we have met," he replied. Even if they had, he would not give the elf the pleasure of being right.

"You have your grandfather's bearing," replied the elf lord, allowing his eyes to judge the dwarf's appearance. "I knew Thror when he ruled under the Mountain."

"Indeed," Thorin's grip tightened on his axe. "He made no mention of you."

The elf simply smirked, though Thorin could not decide if it was in mockery or disdain. " _Nartho i noer, toltho i viruvor. Boe i annam vann a nethail vin,"_ Elrond ordered in Sindarin, his words sharp and cutting, unfamiliar to the dwarven ears.

Glóin protested, "What is he saying? Does he offer us insult?" each word rising in thunderous offence _._

"No, master Dwarf, he's offering you food," came the dark lady's exasperated reply. As she moved to get down from her borrowed horse she stumbled, overcome by a sudden fatigue. One of the fair elves was quick to her side, supporting her as she slowly transferred her weight to her other leg.

Everyone relaxed at once, this sigh of relief much louder than the last. "Oh," the red-bearded dwarf hesitated, before reluctantly downing his axe. "Well, in that case, lead on."

Celeriell held onto her friend's arm, letting him guide her up the stairs. "Thank you, Lindir," she murmured quietly.

"Always, my lady."

" _Boe de nestad_ ," Lord Elrond commanded, already flanked by his courtiers, even before he had the opportunity to take off his armour. "Bring her to her rooms. I will be there shortly."

The mounted warriors behind them slowly dispersed, most likely into the stables and barracks, the dwarven company remaining lost and directionless in the courtyard. With a quiet sigh of contentment, Gandalf turned to his companions.

"Someone will be here shortly to show you to your accommodation. Now, I have very pressing matters to attend to. I expect to see you all at dinner, presentable," he threw a sharp look at all of them, disheveled and deprived of a good-night's sleep, "and at your best behaviour."

A tug on his long sleeve stopped him. "Will she be alright?" Kili stopped Gandalf as he went for the steps that led deeper in the Halls of Lord Elrond. 

It warmed his heart to see someone cared for her wellbeing — it was a foolish thing of her to stand her ground and fight the wargs on her own — a brave act, yes, but a foolish one, too. "It's only a flesh would, Kili, but Lord Elrond will check if any of the poison from the blades touched her skin," Gandalf rested a reassuring hand on the young dwarf's shoulder.

"Rest, my boy, Valar knows you won't get much of it in the next few months," the grey wizard chuckled. "And we shall leave the care for our lady in the hands of our good host."

Kili stood in place for a moment before he turned to face the company. "She saved my life, uncle," he spoke up, facing his uncle, eyes filled with determination that for a sparking moment reminded Thorin of his sister.

The sparks of animosity between the lady of Cardolan and the rightful king of Erebor were far too obvious and Kili hoped the fact that she saved his life — and by Mahal, the poor woman got injured in the process — might sway his uncle's prejudiced views upon all other folk. Quietly, Kili hoped there might also be a way to persuade both sides to make Celeriell a part of their company.

It was the white-bearded dwarf's reply that surprised them all the most. "We can trust her," Balin decided, throwing a concerned look at his liege who looked lost in deep thought.

No words came from Thorin Oakenshield, but his eyes followed the bent figure of a dark haired warrior, disappearing in the alley of pillars.   
  
  


༻ ✶ ༺  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ☛ 𝔈𝔩𝔳𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔰𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫
> 
> ° Mellon nîn = My friend
> 
> ° Boe de nestad = She needs healing.
> 
> ° Lastannem i athrannedh i Vruinen = We heard you had crossed into the Valley.
> 
> ° Mae g'ovannen = Well met
> 
> ° Nartho i noer, toltho i viruvor. Boe i annam vann a net hail vin. = Light the fires, bring forth the wine. We must feed our guests.


End file.
